


No

by Fionavar



Category: Dragon Age II, Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, F/M, Feels, Spoilers for the plot of Transistor, not so much for DAII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/pseuds/Fionavar
Summary: No.She’s slumped there on the Kirkwall street, Red Hawke impaled on the Camerata’s massive blade.He wasn’t fast enough to save her, and now she’s dead.“Hey, Fenris.”Her voice doesn’t sound right, coming from the glowing sword, but it’s hers.“We’re not going to get away with this, are we?”





	No

**Author's Note:**

> I finished Transistor. Then I saw a picture of Fenris.   
> Things happened. Apologies.

No.

She’s slumped there on the Kirkwall street, Red Hawke impaled on the Camerata’s massive blade.

He wasn’t fast enough to save her, and now she’s dead.

“Hey, Fenris.”

Her voice doesn’t sound right, coming from the glowing sword, but it’s hers.

“We’re not going to get away with this, are we?”

It’s hers, and it’s not enough, but it’s something. They took her life (took something from him, too, he feels the loss but doesn’t understand it), but she’s not gone.

“C’mon,” she says, and his fingers curl about the handle, pull the blade from her body. “There.” She’s heavy in his hands. “Together again. Sort of.” He knows that tone, the one she saves for making light of situations that really aren’t funny, like –

\- the thread of memory snaps. Something’s burning in his brain, he can almost smell the overloaded circuits.

“Fenris?”

There are no words, and there are holes in his memory. He knows her, loves her, grieves her as fiercely as he clings to whatever of her the blade has saved. He knows the shape of Kirkwall around him, what the Camerata did to them both. He even remembers their names and faces – the public three, anyway.  But beyond that, the past is gone, a blur of corrupted memory bits.

He shakes his head, doesn’t know if she understands. How much does she see, what can she understand from inside that sword?

“They’ll come looking for us,” she says, almost gently. “We need to move. We’re… hmmm. Unmarked alley. East of the Docks. I think I know where we are.”

He bends down to Hawke’s body, closes the staring eyes, and, obeying a sudden impulse, fastens her crest at his waist and her ribbon at his wrist. This isn’t right, but he cannot make it right by lingering here. He has to walk away, and trust what remains of her to guide him. Nothing too new there.

The Process, the Camerata’s hunting dogs, finds them within metres. The blade flashes light, and using it is suddenly instinctive – time pauses as he considers his tactics, strikes from a distance with Bolt() Function that is Hawke’s, Ghost() into a bluefire wraith when they come too close. Hawke calls the tempo of Turns for him, nicknames the Creeps, Jerks and Cheerleaders as they move through the emptied Kirkwall.

“There,” she says. “Is it… oh, no. They got Aveline.”

He should know the name, but it’s gone into a sizzle of removed files, and even the body – red-haired, strong and 78% Processed – cannot make him recall. The blue cube of her Trace hangs in the air.

“Aveline!” Hawke calls to her, then pauses as if she is listening. “Well, we’re both… yes. Please.” The Trace disappears, and Hawke tells him, “She’s coming with us.” There’s a new Function, Shield(). When Fenris uses it to defend himself from a Snapshot, the Process’s beams are deflected by copper marigolds. He cannot hear her voice, not like Hawke’s.

There are others they find, as he retraces their steps towards the Hanged Man. There’s Carver, whose Function is Cleanse(), damping the Process’s abilities, and Bethany, whose Pull() draws them helplessly into the point Fenris designates. Their Function Files list them as Hawke’s siblings. She is silent about them both.

Then there are others who seem to wake from within the blade – the Camerata’s victims, gone but not entirely, their Traces captured here and waiting for Hawke to bring them to light. Merrill’s Mirror() spawns a weaker copy of the targeted Process to fight its original. Anders’s Vengeance() seems to double his Turn() potential, balanced with increased damage from attacks. Isabela’s Precision() backstabs any foes within range. Sebastian’s Burst() fills the air with arrows of energy. Hawke mourns them, updates their Files, speaks of them, and almost Fenris remembers.

He approaches the Hanged Man slowly. This is where they met the Camerata, lured in by a false smile and hollow promises - where they slew Hawke, took his memories and voice before the Transistor somehow hurled them across the breadth of Kirkwall. There’s a body lying on the steps, 62% Processed, Trace intact.

“Varric,” Hawke says, and the name is almost a sob. “Maker. They’re really… there’s nobody left alive, is there?”

Fenris doesn’t know, but he doubts it. Nothing left to Kirkwall but the Process, the Camerata, and the two of them, whatever they’re worth. But he has something of Hawke in the Transistor, the Traces and Functions of people she says were dear to them both, and what else can he do but make the Camerata pay for their crimes?

The first of them waits for them inside the Hanged Man. He remembers that this place was theirs, was Varric’s, but little more. Still, he shares Hawke’s fury when he sees, standing upon the stage, a tall figure – human in his outline, Process in its details.

“my pet my pet my pet,” the thing burbles, its voice distorted almost into gibberish.

“Danarius,” Hawke hisses.

 “she can’t have you can’t have you knew you’d come to me you’d come back come back come here…”

He moves into Turn(), and together, he and Hawke break the Process. There is something of a man left to it, a crawling shred Hawke almost seems to pity. There is no such softness in him, for Hawke is dead and he could not prevent it. Danarius’s Trace is absorbed, too, but although Leech() looks useful, an instinctive revulsion prevents Fenris from devoting memory to it.

They journey on, the silent man and the sword which has trapped his lover’s soul, through their city made unrecognisable. Its colours and life leach into blocky white, and Processes throng the streets which used to belong to people.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Hawke says, as the shadow of a Process falls over them. It is monstrous, gargantuan, and her blade flashes a sullen red. “What is that… thing? I don’t think… I like it… Fenris…”

Her voice is slow, erratic; she sounds drunk or delirious.

He cannot be losing her now. Not this last… Fenris quickens his pace, dodges the sudden jabs of the mammoth Process, and he grips the handle of the Transistor as though it’s her hand.

“Fenris… d’you remember… that one night? D’you know, I think this… this might actually be worse… maybe.” She chuckles, a slurring sound broken by static. “I mean… I mean… thought I’d die when you walked out… but hey. Hey. I was actually… stuck in my dead body… for a while there. Kind of funny… really… or… y’know… not.”

Not at all.

He cannot speak to her, cannot beg her to stay with him. Instead Fenris cradles the sword in his arms, strokes the red-glowing blade, and finds an OVC terminal. Some meaningless poll or opinion board – he doesn’t even read it. His typing is a swift and inaccurate staccato.

_Hawke please stay with me, just holsd on, please just I cant lose you_

“You’ve got some… nerve … you’ve got to hold on… to me... I don’t have hands anymore…”

_Haekw please im so sorry i love you dont’ leave me_

Hawke makes a noise, a snort of bitter laughter at the edge of exhaustion. “It’s like I taught… you nothing… should say… “I’m sorry I love you… too…”

_Hawke…_ There is so much unsaid. He is no storyteller or poet, to pour out his heartbreak and desolation in pretty words for her, and he knows she does not expect it of him. He is himself, and a survivor, and he will do what must be done before he allows himself to mourn.

“I… know…” she says, her voice flickering like a dying flame. “…do my… best… ignore my… stupid words.”

She falls silent.

It lasts.

The enormous Process corners him high on a building. If Hawke is silent, still the blade functions. One by one the Functions overload under the Spine’s assault – no Ghost (), no Shield(), no Burst() – and he staggers from Turn() to Turn() with only Hawke’s Bolt() to defend them both.

Eventually, it is enough. He cuts into the vast white Process, and its fall shakes the ground. He squeezes through its maw, rips its heart away, and then Hawke speaks, and his own heart beats again.

“Consider me impressed,” she says, and, more gently, “thank you.”

But they do not linger; there is still so far to go.

As they penetrate into the Gallows, the OVC terminals begin to display messages for them, recorded by the two of the Camerata who made the place their home.

“Orsino,” Hawke sighs. “Meredith. They never could agree on anything except that the other one was mad. It’s a wonder they held this place together as long as they did.” Their messages speak of regret, of power used unwisely to the detriment of all, and then of farewell. When Fenris opens the massive door, he finds them dead. Perhaps they killed themselves. Perhaps they killed each other. Neither their bodies nor their Traces are telling.

“…They _were_ insane,”” Hawke says softly, but it doesn’t sound as though she speaks to him. “Uh… Fenris? Do you trust me?”

He does.

“Okay. Well. So. The Transistor controls the Process, and I kind of control the Transistor. Um. Jump out of the window? You won’t fall. ”

He does not hesitate, and the Process obey Hawke. On their backs, they carry him across Kirkwall, back to where Hawke’s body still lies slumped in a filthy alley. He does not look, cannot. Instead, he reviews his updated Files, Meredith’s Animate() and Orsino’s Consolidation(), and curses his silenced tongue.

The hidden man of the Camerata, the one who had not been at the Hanged Man, waits for them in a madness of white Processed architecture, where the sky is broken and the ground a maze of unfinished cubes. The Proxy-screen that floats ahead of them seems to glitch, fracturing the man’s voice into dual-tones, cracking his face with blue.

“Oh, no,” Hawke says, and even after everything they’ve seen in this endless night, the tone of quiet horror is new. She sounds like – the memory shatters as Fenris almost grasps it, but there is treachery among the shards, and failure, an abomination beyond her ability to bear. _“_ It’s _Anders.”_

The name is acidic in his mind, but no more than that. It doesn’t matter. Anders is Camerata, responsible for Hawke’s death, for the theft of Fenris’s voice and memories, for the Process which has taken so many and bleached Kirkwall to bones. If Anders can reverse these, perhaps there will be mercy; if not, the justice those crimes deserve.

Fenris shoulders the Transistor and strides forward into the twisting white.

“Look…” Anders says, perhaps to Fenris, perhaps to himself. “I’m sorry about Hawke.”

Fenris snarls, starts his Turn(), tries to smash the Proxy. It doesn’t work – everything bounces harmlessly off its shielding – and Hawke just sighs. “There’s no point, Fenris. Really, I’m all right. This… isn’t so bad.”

He remembers that tone, too. Hawke can be very persuasive, especially when she’s trying to convince herself.

“I never intended… I didn’t want that. I didn’t know they would… ” Anders says, his layered voice quiet and distant. He doesn’t seem to notice the attack, or to care. “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself. But the city… the injustices… I couldn’t stand by.”

There are shining access points and doorways in the white maze. The Proxy leads them, and Anders talks in fragments. There are reasons, there are explanations, but none of them satisfy. The man’s arguments fray at the edges; he’s fondled and groped the words until they’ve worn to tatters.

“The endless, pointless changes – the mob rule of a careless majority – the polls – it was madness. It was not justice. It was not tidy… The time came to act. No half-measures. I found the way… or the way found me.”

“Here,” Hawke says softly, as they stand upon a precipice. “Don’t worry.”

Fenris nods, and leaps, wrapping his arms around the blade that carries her soul.

“That brings back memories,” she says, and he can almost see the bittersweet smile on her face.

They land safely, and all too soon. The Proxy is waiting, and Anders is still talking.

“The Process… the Transistor… It was working! We removed – harvested – a few key people… But the others… they didn’t get it. They didn’t see… they didn’t know… it couldn’t be stopped without the Transistor. Just return it to the cradle, that’s all we need. Put the system into a new balance. I’ll get it right this time.”

Hawke does not reply to him, and Fenris cannot. There is a tension at the back of his mind, a foreboding that everything is coming to its end. He follows the Proxy as the pallid cubes of the world turn upside down, as the Process attacks, as gravity rights itself again.

And, finally, they come to Anders’s lair. The last man of the Camerata stands on high and watches them, his face hidden in shadow.

“You have to put it back.” Anders says, sounding almost single-toned, and he lights a blue-glowing path for them through the darkness. “I know you don’t have a lot of reason to believe me… but the Process will take us both if it’s not stopped. You know that, right? And this will work.”

The path spirals, and Fenris sees it in front of them, the fierce tangle of blue light. The Cradle.

“So, please… don’t do anything stupid. Just trust me.”

“This is it, then,” Hawke whispers. “What we came all this way to do.”

Not really. He doesn’t trust the Cradle, doesn’t trust Anders, doesn’t trust that any of this will restore her (or his voice, his memory, the friends whose Traces they carry, their city…) and he does not want to let go of her.

“I love you.”

His hands are shaking as he raises her blade to his lips and kisses her.  Then he relinquishes his hold, and the Cradle claims its own.

“Hang on for me,” Hawke says, and the blue light swallows her whole.

The world disappears from around him.

“Fenris. I know you can hear me. We’ll be together again…”

Golden light takes its place. The sharp-edged weight of the Transistor is clasped in his arms, and he kneels on long, green grass beneath a burning sky. It doesn’t make sense…

“Well,” says a voice, half human and half something other, entirely familiar and entirely hated. “The Process is under control. But… nothing ever goes entirely right for me. So here we are, stuck together. Unless…”

Fenris looks up, snarling at Anders. A Transistor is slung across his shoulders, and he is silhouetted against the light of many more.

“I see you have the idea already,” Anders says. “We’ll see.”

And then the stilled time of Turn() falls about them… but it isn’t _his_ Turn(). Fenris is helpless, held static as Anders plans how best to kill him… and there are _two_ of Anders. One is human. The other, a crackle of blue light in the shape of a man. Each approach him. Each queue up the Functions they will execute when the Turn() ends.

They speak in unison, producing the dual voices Fenris heard through the Proxy. “You always wanted it to come to this, didn’t you? Less a man than a wild dog, I told Hawke once. Now she’s trapped in there with the rest of them, and she’s never coming out -”

Then both of Anders strike. Electricity burns through Fenris, searing pain that leeches away his strength, renders him unable to think, prevents him from accessing Ghost() to escape, and overloads Varric’s Triplet().

He knows he cannot survive many attacks of that strength – but _now_ it’s his Turn(), and the two of Anders are grouped close enough for Isabela’s Precision(), upgraded with Merrill’s Mirror(), and then, if he aims Hawke’s Bolt() carefully – it won’t kill either Anders, but it will hurt –

Time comes rushing back, and Fenris blurs into action, Function after Function striking true. Both Anders freeze as the last Bolt() pierces the human one, and there is the distinct sound of a Function overloading.

That shouldn’t have worked, Fenris thinks as he Ghost()s away. There wasn’t enough damage, it shouldn’t have… Then he sees it, suddenly remembers and understands the Function description for Vengeance(): two of Anders, each with their own planning potential in Turn()… but any damage he deals either is doubled, and if one is destroyed, they both die.

Fenris grins, a bluefire Ghost(). He just has to keep his distance until he can next take a Turn(), and then Anders will _pay_ …

Anders starts his Turn() as Ghost() begins to fade, both of him circling closer to Fenris. “Hawke never listened, and now Kirkwall is dead, everyone is dead, and I don’t think you can bring it back. You can’t bring her back. You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t even remember me. The sacrifices I made for this city, for the forgotten and oppressed –“

Time, and there is pain, but the last shred of Ghost(), upgraded with Aveline’s Shield(), protects him, and Anders lost his strongest attack when it overloaded; this is a fight Fenris can win.

It costs him everything except Hawke’s Bolt(), but in the end, Anders’s Vengeance() overloads, and there is only one of him, groping desperately after a Transistor that dissolves above his head. He cries out in a voice that is layered no longer –

And the white, blank building-blocks of the city are below his knees, Hawke’s voice sounding from her blade held tightly in his arms. “You did it. You made it. Fenris, Fenris, the whole place is yours now, where will you start rebuilding?”

Power flows through the Transistor’s handle and out, washing over the white and reshaping a bridge back to the dirty alley where it all began. Where Hawke’s body lies slumped on the Kirkwall street. He’ll start with her. What else could he ever do?

Why else is he still alive, when everyone and everything else is gone?

The alley blossoms back into colour and there she is.

Still dead.

He has all the power this world holds, and he cannot bring her back.

“It’s okay, Fenris,” Hawke says, soft and sad. “It’s… not really me any more. This is enough. To be here with you, like this.”

It’s not.

To live, out here, in this unfinished ghost of a city, voiceless and without past, alone except for Hawke’s voice…

No.

It’s not enough.

He knows what might be.

“Fenris?” Hawke asks, uncertainty and fear shivering at the edges of her voice.

Once more, he lifts her blade to kiss it.

“Fenris, what are you doing? Fenris?”

He is wedging the blade between two cobblestones. He is sitting down beside Hawke’s body, fastening his arms about her waist, kissing the point of her shoulder.

“Fenris, I hope you’re not – please – oh, Fenris, no –“

He is gesturing to the Transistor, the blade lifting into the air and steadying, parallel to the ground and ready.

“Fenris. _Don’t do this_ , don’t – no, oh no, no, don’t, Fenris –“

He is drawing a breath and holding it. Then he beckons.

The Transistor impales him.

On Kirkwall’s street: two bodies, a glowing blade, and the terrified pleas of a woman trapped in a sword as her lover dies.

Time.

Inside the Transistor: a reunion.


End file.
